


roads through time

by betony



Category: The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen, Immortality, Mentors, Not-so-random Encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:13:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Manaliabrids, connected through history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roads through time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elviella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elviella/gifts).



> "The Undying went walking on, taking the roads through time, and history went with them, ignoring them, forgetting the Undying were making history."-- _Crown of Dalemark, p. 260 (HarperCollins)._
> 
>  
> 
> Apologies to elviella for likely hijacking her prompt with headcanon, but a large part of why I nominated Dalemark was to write something about Manaliabrid who, for a character who never directly appears in the books, has always made me wonder whatever became of her. Thanks very much for giving me the chance to answer this!

She runs to the sea, away from any who might seek her. From her cramped cave by the depths, she hears her mother calling to her, and later, Uncle Duck or Osfameron or whatever ridiculous name he goes by now, but she does not reply. She is tired and broken and she means to spend the entire lifetime of the world in this makeshift barrow until the day the One calls to her, in a voice she cannot ignore: 

“Manaliabrid daughter of my granddaughter,” he says, “why do you hide?” 

He is as distant as she has always imagined him, as the rest of the Undying. She wishes she could see his face. (She is grateful she cannot.) 

“Because there is nothing left for me elsewhere,” she replies shortly. Indeed there is not. Clever Tanabrid is married and more concerned with somehow keeping the turbulent affairs of Kredindale in order, and dreamy-eyed Almet thinks of nothing but his small holdings in the South; even Kastri, dearest of her children by far although no blood tie binds them, has declined the throne. Worst of all, though, is the hollowness that lingers in her chest—her Adon, her Kellen is dead once more, and this time, he will not return to her arms. 

“Isn’t there?” If he had been a mortal man speaking in such a voice, he might have been genuinely confused. She knows better. “You have a mother, and an uncle, and children waiting for you to return.” 

Her voice shakes despite her best efforts. “Much help any of them were when it truly mattered!” 

Even in the presence of the One, she dares to spit on the floor—an insufficient expression of the rage that still roils beneath her skin. She cannot forget the sting of betrayal that jolted through her as she sobbed on the floor of her mother’s house and begged, again and again, to change a single thread of her tapestry. Uncle Duck had only needed to ask once, and Mother had agreed; for that they called him Osfameron the master mage, unrivaled in his craft. Except when his friend, who loved and trusted him so, needed the benefit of his intervention a last time, where was Osfameron but escaped on yet another adventure? 

Manaliabrid will never forgive them, any of them, as long as she lives—and that promises to be a very long time indeed. 

“I’ve done with them all,” she snarls, because she has finally tired of sobbing. “From this day forth, I care for none but Manaliabrid.” 

“Very well,” says the One mildly. “As you wish, Great-granddaughter.” 

He sounds far more contented than someone who has just lost an argument has cause to be. With a sinking heart, Manaliabrid remembers that her mother had always warned her that the One was far more devious than one could possibly understand. 

* * *

Brid’s favorite teacher at the Lawschool is the language master, because after all these years, learning a new language seems no more difficult than memorizing the notes of a song. In fact, Master Gunnarsson shakes her hand, beaming, when she turns in her first set of term examinations; they both know that in this class at least, she’s sure to come in first. 

Brid’s least favorite teacher is Biddy Tanaquisdaughter, mostly because the history mistress seems to have it out for her. Everyone notices. Eleth, who’s due to leave school at the end of winter, thinks it’s because Brid can’t seem to keep from answering all of Mistress Tanaquisdaughter’s rhetorical questions in class. “It’s all very good, Brid,” says Eleth, “that your father taught you all the ballads of Adon’s adventures. But I hardly think that when History Mistress asks for the consequences to the common man of the war between Lagan and the Adon is the best time to bring them up!" 

Hildrida Navissdaughter, who’s been listening from the other side of the study, darts closer before Brid can point out that the Adon using his profits from his time as an outlaw is all over the ballads, and so it makes perfect sense to mention in class. 

“Or maybe it’s that History Mistress takes offense that your name is so like hers,” young Hildy says with an impudent smirk. Brid smiles back wanly. It's unfortunately all too clear that despite her sharp words, she desperately wants Brid to be impressed by her wit, at least enough to make friends with her. 

She’s a strange girl, Hildy is, so sad and so lonely; Brid feels quite awful for her and makes every effort to be kind. It’s only, she wishes sometimes that Hildy wouldn’t keep always asking about how she’s the Earl of the South Dales’s sister and the promised sweetheart of the Adon. It makes Brid feel rather disappointed, as though that’s worth remembering about Cennoreth Manaliabrid Clennensdaughter. 

Still, Brid’s never been one to falter at a challenge, or let her terror show, no matter _what_ Moril says, and as always, she rises to the occasion splendidly. First, in an act of showmanship worthy even of her father, she endeavours to introduce Hildy to another of the new students--an Enblith who's as dear as she is broad-shouldered--and almost hugs herself with satisfaction when the two of them hit it off and Hildy no longer watches the other students with such envious despair. 

Secondly, she locks herself into the library before her history term examinations, determined to show Mistress Tanaquisdaughter that no matter how silly Brid might seem in class, she’s really got far more brains than that. Try as she might, there never seems to be enough time to revise everything she means to. On examination day, the allotted hours pass in a blur of terror and trying to remember the Kings of Dalemark in the proper order. Even a week later, when Mistress Tanaquisdaughter calls Brid into her office, Brid’s sure it’s to tell her that she’s failed. 

Mistress Tanaquisdaughter sits her down, which only makes it worse. Surely nothing good can come from such uncharacteristic kindness. Brid bites her lip and refuses the mistress’s offer of wine and hardly takes a breath until Mistress Tanaquisdaughter looks down her nose at her and says: “Apparently it’s not only my examination in which you’ve excelled, Brid Clennensdaughter. I understand you’ll be Great Girl this year.” She raises the cup of wine she poured for herself in silent salute. “I wanted to be first to congratulate you.” 

Brid takes a minute to collect her thoughts, but it does no good; when she speaks, the first words out of her mouth are still, “I thought you hated me.” 

Mistress Tanaquisdaughter chuckles. It’s a rather nicer noise than anything Brid has heard coming from her at any other point this term. “Hate you? Why should I hate you?” 

“Well—I—you—“ 

“If you are referring to the fact that I am much harder on you than any of my other pupils, then, yes, I am.” She shakes her head. “I’m disappointed to find my partiality so obvious.” 

Brid blinks. “Partiality?” 

“More than anyone else you might meet here, Brid Clennensdaughter, I am aware of what the wife of an Adon must learn.” The history mistress’s voice is surprisingly bitter. “And far too well do I know the disasters a Countess of Hannart unprepared for her duties can create. You have a great future before you, Brid. I only mean to make sure you are ready to meet it.” 

Brid closes her mouth. For once she is conscious ahead of time that at the moment, she can only babble and make things worse, and so she doesn't dare say a word. She nods her thanks to Mistress Tanaquisdaughter, races from the room as soon as it’s polite, and doesn’t mention the encounter to any of her friends. When they announce the Great Girl at assembly, Brid performs her best impression of surprise; everyone seems completely taken in, except Mistress Tanaquisdaughter, who snorts derisively. That’s all right, though, because everyone assumes it’s just because Mistress Tanaquisdaughter is only sour, and Brid’s popularity soars in response to how easily she shrugs it off. 

History class is, if anything, even more difficult for Brid after that, Mistress Tanaquisdaughter taking every opportunity to pelt her with more and more questions: what would she do in this circumstance, and this, and this? But Brid always has an answer, some silly, others not; studies like one possessed for every exam; and never gives up her position as Great Girl to anyone. Every time her name is called at Assembly she catches Mistress Tanaquisdaughter’s eye; every time the older woman’s eyes are bright with pride. 

On Leaving Day she breaks away from Kialan’s embrace to look for Mistress Tanaquisdaughter, to thank her just once for all she’s done. She never quite manages, between the shouted congratulations from her friends, and catching a glimpse of _Moril_ , who’s even brought along his friend the King, and finally, Kialan distracting her very, very effectively in the way she likes best. 

Mistress Tanaquisdaughter melts back into the obscurity of the crowds as though she had never been there at all. 

* * *

On her eighteenth Midsummer, Maewen goes to Dropthwaite like she has every year since she came back from the past. Cennoreth is not there. Cennoreth is never there, or if she is, her cozy house with its great loom is hidden away so tidily Maewen can’t find it. These days Maewen only goes out of sheer habit to spend a pleasant afternoon lying on a nice warm rock in the midst of the bracken and daydreaming about nothing in particular. It's quite nice, Dropthwaite, if one could avoid the hawkers and the tourists taking pictures of every picturesque valley. 

Naturally Mitt never shows up either, no matter what he might have said the last time she saw him at the Tannoreth Palace. This doesn’t bother Maewen in the slightest, because at the end of the seventeenth birthday, where neither hair nor hide of the greatest king of Dalemark appeared, she decided she wasn’t thinking about him any more. And she wasn’t. At least not much. 

She’s startled from her thoughts by a shadow that falls over her, one that belongs to a tall woman with wriggly hair who’s currently looming over her. Maewen blinks in confusion. 

“Hello,” says the woman, and gives her a rather anxious smile. For a instant Maewen wonders if _that_ ’s what Mitt always meant about her nervous freckly look, but then she remembers she isn’t meant to be pining over him any longer and grins back at the stranger instead. 

“Hello yourself,” she replies. “Am I in your way?” 

“Not at all,” she says, and sits down beside Maewen, despite her very smart trouser suit. “My dear girl, surely you haven’t forgotten me?” 

And just like that something shakes loose in Maewen’s head: a memory from immediately after Mum and Dad had divorced, when she had hated her life and everything about it except a grand grown-up lady who promised her everything would be better someday. 

“You’re Lia Weaver,” Maewen remembers. “You boarded your horse at Aunt Liss’s stable, when I was young.” 

The woman smiles. “I did. But you weren’t much taller than my waist then, child." 

“You came shopping with us once,” Maewen goes on, memories flooding back. “Everyone thought you looked enough like me to be my mum. We had ice creams.” 

Lia Weaver laughs. “Until your Aunt Liss found us and gave me the most terrible talking-to for ruining your appetite. Little wonder I had to take my Gorse to another stable before long.” 

She remembers that afternoon, just as vividly as she can recall Lia’s habit of filling her pockets with apples for the horses and sweets for sulky young girls. Despite Lia’s joke about Aunt Liss running her off, Maewen rather thinks everyone had liked Lia Weaver, had been dreadfully sad when she’d left, and all things considered, had trusted her rather more than they had cause to. 

Maewen at twelve might not have found that suspicious. Maewen at eighteen does. 

“But whatever are you doing here?” she asks, forcing her body to stay alert but relaxed. “You’re not with the tour group?” 

Lia shakes her head. “You never see the most interesting things when you’re tethered to a guide, don’t you think? Not to mention you’re rather high and dry if they run off and leave you.” 

Without meaning to, she thinks of Wend dashing from Cennoreth’s house with that terrible look on his face. It was right here, only five—or four hundred, depending on how you looked at it—years ago. 

“No,” says Lia airily, “I suppose I’m here for much the same reason you are: to visit my mother. And I must tell you it won’t do much good sitting out here, waiting for the door to open itself. I would have expected the girl who came close to winning my tokens herself to have more sense.” 

“But—but—why?” Maewen splutters. It seems no amount of inflation will allow her to accept shocks with equanimity. 

“Well, for one thing, I’ve always had a soft spot for girls named Manaliabrid—or even Mayelbridwen,“ Lia’s mouth twists in a lopsided smile. “My great-grandfather made sure of that. For another, I’ve met Amil the Great once or twice in my wanderings, and he’s a nice enough boy. The first time I saw him, I thought he must be just like my Kellen, always restless for something better to come along. It wasn’t until later I saw he was waiting for _someone_ instead.” 

Despite herself, Maewen turns red. 

“But most of all—“ Lia Weaver reaches over and kisses her on the forehead in what Maewen dazedly realizes must be the solemn blessing of one of the Elder Undying, “—I’ve spent enough of my life hoping for one last miracle to deny another woman her own.” Lia— _Manaliabrid of the Undying!_ \-- rises to her feet and starts taking great purposeful strides. “Come on, then; Mother’s waiting and I don’t doubt Amil is, too.” 

Maewen follows, only a half-step behind.


End file.
